


Where should your star fall?

by SecondStarOnTheLeft



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Racism, Canon-Typical Sexism, Culture Shock, F/M, Female Friendship, Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Minor Original Character(s), POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 03:07:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17113277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/pseuds/SecondStarOnTheLeft
Summary: Ashara comes north to serve as handmaiden to her princess, safe in the bosom of a Dornish court-within-the-court.Along the way, amidst all her complaining, she finds one Northern thing that ispreciselyto her liking.





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kgathp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kgathp/gifts).



> Happy Christmas, Pri! I hope you like it!
> 
> For the gotsecretsanta exchange on tumblr.

When Ashara was very small, no more than six or seven, her mama sat her down before the great map of Dorne that hung in her solar. It was a beautiful, ancient thing, a gift from Nymeria of old to her Dayne heirs, and Ashara had never been allowed to touch it.

“Here,” Mama said, putting a long, thin stick into Ashara’s hand. “Show me where your heart lies, sweetling.”

Ashara pointed to Starfall. Where else?

“Now, sweetling,” Mama said, kissing her hair. “Show me where your eyes would see.”

Ashara pointed to Sunspear, and to the Water Gardens, and to the Hellholt - Elia, Elia, and Papa’s family. She would see all of them, and soon.

“Very good, my darling,” Mama said, catching Ashara by the chin and catching her eye. Mama and Arthur had the same blueish purple eyes as Ashara, brighter than Allem’s. “And one last thing, little starling - where should your star fall?”

 

* * *

Starfall smelled of fruit-tree blossom and sea-salt all of the time, and it was never quiet. There was the breeze coming in over the clifftops, and the shush of the waves, and there was the thunder of the Torrentine hurling itself into the sea far below. The sun rarely abandoned them, but when it did, storm winds howled between the towers and the fountain bowls ran over onto the lavender-grey cobbles in every yard. 

Ashara’s rooms were in the Orchard Tower, looking away north into the mountains. Right below the tower were Clarisse’s Gardens, full up with irises in purple and blue, and sweet fuschias, and dancing lilies. Beyond that, though, were the orchards, peaches in the middle and then plums, then apples, then cherries and pears, and then the orange and lemon groves out beyond that. Her very favourite were the lime trees, which her papa had only introduced the year she was born. 

Her balcony was down and across from Allem’s, and sometimes, when the evenings were warm and slow and sticky, they would each sit out on their balconies and throw cherry pits at the other. Sometimes Allem would throw walnuts, too, and laugh when Ashara cursed him for it.

She did not know how she was to give all of this up. How she was supposed to go without Mama helping her pin her hair in the mornings, or Allem’s teasing lessons on ruling, or waking up to find that the breeze had swept dustings of blossom into her bedchamber.

But Elia needed her. King’s Landing had never been kind to Dorne, save during Daeron the Good’s time on the throne, and Elia would need as many of them around her as possible to guard against the creature wearing the crown. Larra Blackmont was to go as well, and Eleine Qorgyle, and a few others. Ashara was the youngest by several years, but she had always been Elia’s pet while they were together at the Water Gardens, and she had no doubt that she would be able to remain close to the Princess even at court. 

“Come here, little starling,” Mama said, beckoning from her soft, high-backed chair. “Come here and let me see you.”

Mama had hired a lady’s maid of Ashara’s own, and Lucia had gathered all of Ashara’s hair up into a silver-wire net studded with pale river pearls, and pinned a neat little lace cap on top of her head. Her gown was samite, mostly, a rich lavender that made her skin seem to shine, and Allem had found a necklace of pearls that sat just against her collarbones. She had never felt so grown up, or so lovely.

“Oh, little starling,” Mama said, clasping Ashara’s hands in hers and smiling. “Be careful, my dove - be so, so careful. These fool northerners will seek to devour you simply for being beautiful.”

She flushed, and threw herself down into Mama’s waiting arms. Being apart from her would be torture, until she steeled herself to it.

 

* * *

“Surely this is not little Ash!” Larra crowed, reaching up to take Ashara’s face in her hands. “Goodness me, I seem to remember you as a little thing hiding behind Elia’s skirts when she stole all my blood oranges. Now look at you!”

“It’s good to see you as well, Larra,” Ashara said, feeling her blush rise again. “But I am a woman grown now, I turned seven-and-ten just last week-”

“Oh, you’re positively a  _ greybeard,  _ Ash,” Oberyn drawled, winding his arm around her waist and kissing her cheek. “Far too old and sensible for such a silly thing as  _ court,  _ I think.”

Eleine Qorgyle, near-silent and so delicately thin that she’d always put Ashara in mind of a shadow, waved from her perch on Oberyn’s desk. Ynys Yronwood’s shockingly pale hair shone in the shade between the bookshelves, her hand dark on Ryon Allyrion’s white sleeve. Wenda Wyl was laughing her sharp, cackling birdcall of a laugh at some story Myria Jordayne, talking mostly with her hands as always, was telling to her and freckled Franklyn Fowler. All of Elia and Oberyn’s most trusted friends, and here was Ashara, counted among them!

“You can’t call her little Ash anymore, Larra,” Mors Manwoody said, pushing Oberyn away from Ashara’s side and taking her under his arm. “She’s the tallest of all of us, save for Ryon and me.”

Frank Fowler heard that, and stuck out his tongue in response - he’d always been sensitive over being so small and slight, but Ashara had always thought his fine, narrow features to be very handsome indeed. She had wished, once upon a time, that Elia might wed Frank and stay in Dorne, if only because Frank was so courteous and charming and made Elia smile so, and was not so tall that he would tower over her.

Ashara towered over a great many people, but was minding it less and less since Allem had reminded her just how much taller than their papa Mama had been. Their papa was long dead, killed in a sailing accident off the coast of Sunspear, so long gone that Ashara only halfway remembered him, but Allem was enough older that he remembered Papa well, and said that she and Arthur took their long legs from him.

If Mama had not minded being taller than her husband, Ashara would not mind it either. 

“I’ll call her little Ash as long as I please, Woody,” Larra said, nose in the air. “Even Oberyn used call her little Ash, and she’s been taller than  _ him _ since she started walking.”

Ashara left them to their bickering, choosing instead to move and say hello to everyone else - she was the last to arrive, Myria told her, and they would be departing the day after next according to Wenda. Ryon said that Oberyn had commissioned red sails for their ship, which made Frank roll his eyes and say  _ pirate bait.  _ Ynys slapped him on the arm for that, which startled him almost out of his seat.

Ashara could see herself enjoying court, if this was anything to go on. She thought Mama would be pleased that her companions all were well known to her. She thought they might protect her, if King’s Landing tried to do her ill.

 

* * *

Elia’s rooms were decorated in the northern style, staid and dark and heavy, and the ladies surrounding her were dressed much the same. Only her three Dornish ladies - two cousins of her mother, old enough to have borne her themselves, Celise and Samara, and Raina Dalt of Lemonwood, who was as sour as her blazon - were dressed in anything familiar, and Ashara felt dread settle in her belly at the thought of being stuck in those awful long stays the northerners seemed to favour. Would they be expected to stay quietly in Elia’s solar, sewing and making no noise? Would they be allowed to spend time with their friends, or would they be kept from the men simply because they  _ were  _ men?

Elia smiled, though, and raised one hand. Her northern ladies did not look pleased about it, but the filed out in a neat, silent line, three of the six of them scowling mightily at their exclusion.

The other three were eyeing either the Dornish dresses or the Dornish men. Both possibilities made Ashara bite her lip to keep from laughing.

“I asked them to leave us for half an hour,” Elia said, taking them by the hand one at a time, kissing their knuckles as a knight to his lady love. “So that I might share my news, and warn you all.”

She tucked her soft chiffon gown back against the round little pot of her belly with a sly sort of a smile - a babe! Oh, how wonderful! Elia would be such a lovely mama! - and then pointed one finger straight into Oberyn’s face.

“Little brother,” she said, “if I find you’re misbehaving, I shall write to our lady mother myself - and even if I do not, our brave ser uncle will.”

“And just what do you mean by  _ misbehaving,  _ sweet sister?” Oberyn asked, settling right against Elia’s side. “I am a model of appropriate courtly behaviour.”

“That means something very different here than it does at home,” Elia warned him. “Come, gather close by me all of you, and let us tell you all our carefully collected secrets.”

The dread in Ashara’s belly went heavy. This was not what she had expected when she accepted Princess Loreza’s invitation to join Elia’s household.

 

* * *

The men of court looked at Ashara and Larra like venison on a spit, following them with hungry eyes, calling after them with wet mouths. Larra did not seem to mind, or at least seemed able to ignore it, but the way they whistled when the wind pushed Ashara’s skirts against her legs made her feel conscious of herself in a way she’d never experienced before. No one ever dared to look at her this way in Starfall, and Princess Loreza did not tolerate such intimidation at Sunspear or in the Water Gardens.

She missed the Water Gardens. There, she could traipse about short stays and smalls and a shift, dipping in and out of the pools, and no one said a word. Once, she’d fallen asleep in the sun and burned her shoulders raw, and she had worn a shirt of Ryon’s with soft linen breeches belonging to Woody. She wondered how the men of King’s Landing would look at her if she wore hunting leathers and a sandsilk blouse, as she did when she rode out into the mountain vales with Allem and his friends.

Elia had guided them in choosing seamstresses to bolster their wardrobes against the cooler air here in King’s Landing, and Ashara was glad that the extra layers left her body a little less on show. She enjoyed flirting, but did not dare risk playfulness with all these strange, lustful men.

To think that they thought Dorne sluttish! Ashara had kissed her share of boys, of course she had, but no man in Dorne would  _ dare _ to behave as these northerners did. She had learned her histories, had read of Alysanne of old banning the First Night, but she had never really understood the  _ need  _ for it.

She did now. That was why she pressed closer to Larra, wrapped her veil closer around her face, and did not lift her head for fear of meeting their eyes. They would only take it as an invitation.

 

* * *

Rhaegar Targaryen was beautiful, Ashara supposed, but he held no appeal to her.

Something about his preternaturally calm eyes, such a very deep shade of indigo, not quite as blue as Ashara’s own, made her spine itch. He reminded her of a horse Allem had once coaxed into their stables, a beautiful thing that was obviously a well-bred animal that had escaped its master. Beautiful delicate legs, a gorgeous long face, and a coat that shone like the sun on water once they gave him a good brushing. He hadn’t liked being ridden, had resisted any bridle beyond soft rope, but had nuzzled apples from their hands like a pet.

Until one day he hadn’t. One of the stable boys had ended up with such a badly broken right arm that it had healed shorter than the left, and they’d put the beautiful, mad animal down.

Elia’s husband, father to the child causing Elia’s back to bow, reminded Ashara of that horse. She told only Frank Fowler, who frowned, kissed her hands, and agreed. He whispered it to Ynys, who breathed it against Ryon’s ear, who said it as a jape to Wenda, who hid it in a song for Myria, who shared it with Larra over caramels, who passed it finally to Eleine. 

Eleine was near-silent, and Ashara wondered if that made her anger burn brighter. She was the one who’d told Oberyn of Ashara’s genuine fear, and Oberyn had confided that had it not been for Eleine’s fury, he might not have taken it so seriously.

But they all were watching the Prince of Dragonstone now, and Ashara was glad of it. She was also going to be very careful of Eleine from now on.

 

* * *

“Being pregnant is very strange,” Elia said, leaning on Ashara on one side and Raina Dalt on the other. “But I had gotten used to it, and I am not sure I like the change.”

Princess Loreza had sent a Dornish maester and two Dornish midwives as part of their company, and Ashara was doubly glad of it now. The grand maester had wanted to lock Elia away in a horrible dark room, and a silly septon had wanted to fill that close air with incense. Celise and Samara, together with Nessa Darry and Abella Whent, had chased all the men out of the room save Princess Loreza’s Maester Daven, and then they had charged around throwing open windows, doing as the midwives said in fetching bowls of water and lengths of clean linen.

But the labour was slow. Or at least, so the midwives said, two women of middling age who seemed utterly unconcerned with the fuss they could all hear outside the doors of Elia’s rooms. The elder of the two - or the most weathered, maybe - was called Mag, the other Tevia, and Ashara was thankful to have them.

If only because they’d thrown Wenda and Myria out when they’d become hysterical.

“Tell me, Ashara,” Elia huffed, “will witnessing this put you off going through it yourself?”

“Our Ash is made of sterner stuff than that, little princess,” Ynys said cheerfully. Easy indeed for her to be so calm - she had done her duty already, with her and Ryon’s little Edgar still in the cradle in Godsgrace. “She will come through this as brave as any of us, you see if I’m wrong.”

Ashara admired Ynys for her strength in leaving her babe in the care of his grandparents, but she admired her even more for the strength she had shown in forgiving Ryon for his by-blow. It was not the babe’s fault, of course, but Ryon’s bastard was only a moon’s turn or so older than little Edgar. Ashara did not think she could forgive a husband who treated her so ill, even for the sake of her child.

Elia drew to a halt.

“Shit,” she said, her narrow face thinning. “I don’t much like this change either.”

 

* * *

“Hello, little sister.”

Ashara rounded on Arthur, far too tired to pretend fondness now.

“Oh, so the high and mighty Sword of the Morning has remembered that he has family at court,” she snapped. “Shall I call you by name, or shall I remember my place and call you  _ ser?” _

Arthur was smiling. She hated how alike their faces were when he was being this way, and he had been this way since her arrival at court. She had assumed that he would vie as much as Prince Lewyn to serve as Elia’s guard, but it seemed he was far too busy cosying up with Prince Rhaegar to think of such things as the wellbeing of his princess. 

Looking at him, with his hair combed back and tied with a white ribbon, with his face set in a mild little smile, it was like looking at a statue of her brother. This man before her was some far-distant Sword of the Morning, imagined into being by a northerner - he was not the brother who had chased Allem through the orchards with Ashara on his back, her legs too short to otherwise keep up. He was not the brother who had forgone the chance to squire with Ser Barristan the Bold, the better to squire for Prince Lewyn before his white cloak, so as to remain in Dorne, so he could prove himself worthy of Dawn.

“You look well, sister,” he said. “Court is treating you well?”

“Being in Princess Elia’s service is an honour without compare,” she said stiffly. “I could not ask for a better mistress.”

“She always was fond of you,” Arthur agreed. For some reason, it enraged Ashara to see Dawn’s purple-wrapped hilt over his shoulder, and he seemed to notice it. “I’m sorry I haven’t seen you more, Ash - my duties keep me busy constantly.”

“You haven’t seen me at  _ all, _ ” she said, wishing she didn’t sound so petulant. “But you can set that to rights, Art - Prince Lewyn can find time between duties to visit with Elia and Oberyn. I’m sure you can do the same.”

“Ash-”

“You’ve been too long from Dorne,” she said. “You ought to spend more time with us, lest you forget where you came from.”

He opened his mouth, jaw sharp with a coming retort, but Larra came out of Elia’s rooms to drag Ashara back in to the festivities for little Princess Rhaenys’ birth. Arthur could save his hard words for someone who had more a mind to listen to him, for Ashara was  _ quite _ tired of her brother.

 

* * *

There were more formal festivities to celebrate the little princess’ birth, of course, beyond the impromptu party Oberyn threw in Elia’s bedchamber. A formal celebration for the birth of a new heir, even if the little princess did  _ smell Dornish. _

What had the ugly old bastard even meant by that? Ashara understood that no one this far north seemed to understand how to use perfume, but smelling of something other than sweat and shit was not something to be ashamed of. 

But a formal celebration meant people being invited beyond just the usual cadre of bootlickers and brown-noses. Ashara was excited for the variety, less to meet new people than because an influx of new ladies might distract the men from her and Larra and the others.

One had been sent to Sunspear, and Princess Loreza had sent Prince Doran in her place. Wenda said Oberyn was concerned with that, that he was worried that it meant the Princess was ill, but Ashara chose to believe that it was simply to allow Prince Doran to show off his beautiful wife - and the Lady Mellario truly  _ was  _ beautiful. She and Prince Doran seemed to dote on one another, which felt so very unusual after these months spent in the north. The northerners seemed afraid to show their love, which meant they looked strange at Ashara and her friends for holding hands or kissing one another’s cheeks. It made her like Prince Doran. She had never known him herself, too much younger than him for that, but Elia and Oberyn both spoke of him with such enthusiastic fondness and love that Ashara liked him by association anyway, even without the respect and love he showed his wife.

Another invitation had been sent to the Eyrie, where Lord Baratheon was fostering with Lord Arryn. He was cousin to Elia’s husband, and so was welcome at court whenever he wished, but he preferred to remain high above in the Eyrie, the better to look down on them all. Ashara had heard disapproving whispers of his refusal to take his seat at Storm’s End, and thought the disapproval fair - it was a poor man who so shirked his duty. Allem had fostered away at the Hellholt for ten years, but he had come home when he was knighted, and Mama was still well alive!

“I am eager to see how we’re supposed to dress,” Myria said, adjusting the drape of her black, black hair over her shoulder. She had braided it thick and heavy, and added tiny diamond-headed pins that twinkled like stars against a barely-dawning sky. Ashara thought Myria looked almost more a Dayne than she did, but for her green-hazel eyes. “Do you think all these ladies flocking to find matches among the Prince’s men will scowl at us, as the Lannister girl does?”

Cersei Lannister had made it  _ quite _ clear how little she thought of any of them, and her gowns seemed to be richer and more elaborate every day. Ashara couldn’t stand the thought of all those skirts, and was glad that the hall would be hot enough tonight to go without sleeves. She had a fine set of narrow silver armlets that she had wanted to wear for  _ ages,  _ and a long silver chain set with amethysts that would hang along her spine, shown off by the low back of her gown. 

Ynys had helped her choose the cloth for this gown, in the four days they’d had at Sunspear before sailing north - fine, soft chiffon of half a dozen shades of purple, split and layered so it moved and shifted colour as she walked or danced, all overlayed with a sheer, silver-embroidered white overdress. It was a gown fit for a princess, especially with her new jewellery, and she was glad that she could be sure to do Elia proud. They all were wearing their colours - Wenda in bright Wyl yellow edged with heavy blackwork, Larra in deep Blackmont gold with a daring black-and-gold chequy underskirt, Myria in a forest of different greens, Eleine silent and gorgeous is flaming Qorgyle red, and Ynys… 

Oh, Ynys. Perhaps she had not forgiven Ryon as entirely as Ashara thought, for she was wearing soft, sandy Yronwood gold, without a hint of Allyrion red-and-black. The paler colour was gorgeous against the dark brown of her skin, but it was more a statement than Ashara had expected of Ynys, who was the sweetest of their company. Ashara took Ynys’ hand without a word, and was relieved when Ynys squeezed her fingers.

Ryon noticed it as soon as they joined the men in Elia’s solar. His shoulders dropped, and Ashara found it hard to have any sympathy for him. The northerners had all kinds of funny ideas about how bastards were viewed in Dorne, but Ashara had never known any woman to simply overlook her husband siring a child by a mistress. Plenty of people had paramours, but as a rule it was only the unwed, or the widowed. Ryon had insulted Ynys enormously, and she was right to be angry. She was  _ right  _ to show her displeasure. 

Ryon was lucky Lord Anders had not come across the desert to Godsgrace for his head. Ashara had never met Ryon’s mother, but what stories she had heard of Lady Delonne made her think that perhaps the Lady of Godsgrace might have put her son on the block for Lord Yronwood’s use.

“Come, all of you,” Elia said, emerging from her bedchamber, flanked by Raina and her cousins. She was a goddess, in orange and red and bright, shining cloth-of-gold. Her hair was always stunning, glossy black-brown and curling in the sort of elegant, tumbling way that took a great deal of work for Ashara to achieve. That hair was bound half-up, a coronet of braids threaded with tiny rubies and bright topazes, and her red-painted lips brought a glow to the warm amber-brown of her skin. 

Gods above, Ashara had thought Myria looked beautiful - none of them were more than a candle against the sun of Elia’s loveliness. 

 

* * *

They stood out, at least.

Every other woman in the hall was wearing the long stays and heavy skirts that made Ashara itch just watching. They all turned and stared as Elia and her party moved across the floor - Ashara on Oberyn’s arm, head bowed to hear the naughty stories he made up about the stuffiest, most disapproving matrons they passed. 

“Little Ash,” Larra said, fingertips walking up Ashara’s spine to take her attention. “Do you see the oaf with the bright eyes?”

Larra’s fingertips trailed west across Ashara’s left shoulder, and Ashara turned to look - so did Oberyn, once he saw where Ashara was turning.

“Ah,” Oberyn said. “Our mighty lord of storms - I shouldn’t dally there, little Ash, lest you be swept away.”

Ashara blushed - the others were all older than her, used to talking about such  _ dalliances,  _ but she had never done much more than kiss a few boys. She hadn’t had the interest in it, truth be told. Seeing the way Lord Baratheon was eyeing her, all greed and ownership, she did not think she had any interest now, either. 

“He can huff and puff all he wishes,” she said, tightening her arm through Oberyn’s. “But I shall not fall.”

Lord Baratheon raised his cup in salute, and Ashara turned her face away. Oberyn and Larra - and Frank, on Larra’s arm - laughed and laughed.

 

* * *

“You ought to dance, Ash,” Elia said, a while later. “Has no one caught your eye, sweetling?”

Ashara had chosen to stand as Elia’s cupbearer for the evening, partly because she liked being close to the princess and partly because she was not sure what else to do. She knew the dances they played here in King’s Landing, but she did not know the people dancing. She could not risk dancing only with Oberyn and Frank and Ryon and Woody, for that would surely draw comment from the northerners, and she did not trust any northern man here not to try and take advantage of her dress being less restrictive than most. 

“I am happy enough here, Your Highness,” she promised. “And I shouldn’t know who to dance with.”

Elia made a considering little noise, tapping her thin fingers to her lip. 

“I should avoid any of our regular friends,” she said thoughtfully. “And the Reachers, of course.”

“Of course,” Ashara agreed, smiling a little - few women were as magnanimous as Elia Martell, but even she couldn’t help disliking the bloody Reachers. 

“There are the Marchers,” Elia said. “Lord Dondarrion is old, and widowed - he might be a safe candidate. Or Lord Arryn, mayhap? He has a reputation as a cold fish of sorts, so I think you could escape unscathed there.”

“Am I being silly?” Ashara asked. “It is not as though they might do more than just- just be a little forward on the dancefloor. Is that silly?”

“Not silly at all,” Elia assured her. “I was just as cautious when first I came to court.”

Ashara looked around the room, trying to avoid meeting the eyes of any of the men who were watching over toward her and Elia. She hoped Larra came back soon - Larra had a way of forcing men to look away, when they dared to settle their gaze upon her. Ashara wanted to learn how to do that. She wanted to  _ force  _ men away, unless she asked for their attention. 

(Ashara had heard stories of Shiera Sea-Star, the witch. She had thought the last Great Bastard more worthy of respect than any of her ignoble brothers.)

There was only one man who looked as anxious as Ashara felt in the whole room - well, except for miserable Ryon, dancing with smiling, faraway Ynys. But this stranger was standing with sombre old Lord Arryn, dressed in gleaming white velvet and with a beard clipped immaculately close to his long, square jaw.

“Ah,” Elia said. “I believe that to be Lord Arryn’s  _ other  _ ward, Lord Eddard Stark - the second son of Winterfell. Shall I ask him to dance on your behalf?”

“Oh, Elia, oh, don’t-”

But Elia was already waving Oberyn over, and he and Larra spun together from the dance to arrive flushed and beautiful before Elia’s chair.

“Ashara is feeling shy,” Elia said. “I think she ought to dance with someone else who is feeling shy, and we have settled on the polite young man in white.”

“Oh, the Stark boy?” Oberyn said gleefully. “Delightful. I approve most heartily - Ash complains more than any of us about northerners, so it seems only fitting that she be sweet on a  _ true  _ Northerner.”

Oberyn was away before Ashara could defend herself from such calumny, but he left Larra to continue his assault.

“It  _ is _ fitting, little Ash,” Larra said joyfully. “Oh, how splendid - you complaining that Arthur seems half a northerner now, and you turn around and flirt with having one for yourself!”

“I haven’t- there is no  _ flirting- _ ”

“Who’s Ash flirting with?” Frank asked, leaning against the other side of Elia’s high-backed chair. “I’m heartbroken, Lady Dayne, I was  _ sure  _ your choice would come down between Woody and I.”

Woody was dancing with Wenda, and gave Ashara his most salacious wink as they moved past.  Ashara never blushed when Woody or Frank or even Oberyn flirted with her, but when Eddard Stark glanced at her over Oberyn’s shoulder, she felt like her face had caught fire.

Larra and Frank noticed, of course, as did Elia. Only the princess did not laugh.

“Leave her alone, you monsters,” Elia scolded fondly. “Or at least wait to tease until we know for sure that little Lord Stark has accepted her offer of a dance.”

“Who could refuse the brightest star of Starfall?” Frank said in an unexpected show of sincerity, wrapping his arm over Ashara’s shoulders. “No man in this room has been able to look away from her long enough to notice another woman - well, except Ryon, of course.”

They all hummed at that, no one quite sure how to react to the obviously growing tension between Ryon and Ynys - Ynys, who was now dancing with Lord Dondarrion’s fine red-haired son. Ryon looked as if she’d kicked him square in the fork, and Ashara wondered if anyone beyond themselves would notice aught amiss.

“Lord Eddard will have you for the next dance, Ash,” Oberyn announced, smug as Braavosi banker. “And for the one after as well, if he pleases you. I think he’s been trying to find his bravery all night, poor lad.”

Indeed, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell was making his way unsurely across the floor, and Ashara found herself being tugged and shoved by myriad hands from safety into the wilderness of the crowded edge of the dancefloor.

Mercifully, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell moved quickly even when nervous.

“My lady,” he said, bowing lower than was necessary. “I am Eddard of House Stark - I should be honoured if you would accept me for this dance.”

Ashara dropped into a curtsy made less precise than usual by her sudden nerves. His voice was very, very deep, his accent unlike any she’d heard before, and his eyes were not dark brown, as she’d assumed from far away, but rather an interesting grey. 

“Ashara, of House Dayne,” she said, offering him her hand. “Shall we, my lord?”

His hands were cool and dry, his smile sincere but terrified, and she was surprised by the confident way he led her to very nearly the middle of the floor.

“I am no great dancer,” he warned her, “but Prince Oberyn assured me that you would more than make up for my lack of skill.”

“I can dance, I suppose,” she admitted. “Have you been in King’s Landing before, my lord, to have your dancing so judged?”

That made him  _ laugh.  _ He had a warm, quiet laugh, and Ashara felt very intimate indeed simply to hear it. 

“Never, my lady, but I have a sister who is just turning one-and-ten who is sure to tell me how useless I am to her whenever I visit home.”

“I should like a sister,” Ashara said. “Alas, I have only two brothers, both older than me. You might have met the younger of them-”

“Ser Arthur,” he said, spinning her easily, as if he hadn’t yet noticed that she was a good four inches taller than him. “He was with Prince Rhaegar when Robert - that is, Lord Baratheon was brought to meet him.”

“And you stood at Lord Baratheon’s shoulder as his sworn shield?”

“As his friend. We are foster-brothers. We have warded together since we were eight years old.”

“I find myself envious, ser, for I have no such bond. Even my very closest friends have not been constants for me all my life.”

“No ser, my lady - we do not have knights in the North.”

They danced the rest of the dance, and the whole of the next. Ashara was laughing at an unexpectedly accurate impression of Lord Tywin as they stepped into a third dance when she felt a hand on her arm.

“Lord Eddard,” Arthur said, tugging Ashara from his hold. “I would have my sister.”

“Ser,” Lord Eddard said. Ashara hoped the reluctance she read in his dark eyes was not simply wishful thinking, and let her hand linger in his for as long as possible. “My lady.”

“There will be more dancing after dinner tomorrow, Eddard Stark of Winterfell,” she said. “Find me then, and we might continue our game.”

He bowed that almost-too-low bow once again, and returned to his corner with Lord Arryn while Ashara, for her sins, turned to dance with her brother.

“You might be more careful, sister,” Arthur said in that infuriatingly serene way. Ashara was  _ sure  _ he was styling himself after Prince Rhaegar, and she was so angry with him for having let himself be swept up in the Prince that she could have slapped him. None of them had shifted to northern styles or manners beyond what was necessary to cope with the cold weather and lack of courtesy, and she knew the Westerners never moved an _ inch.  _ Why should everyone be expected to match the Targaryen way of things?

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, brother.”

“Ashara. Do not play the fool. It does not suit you.”

“Nor you, Arthur,” she snapped. “I don’t know what you think I have been doing, but-”

“You danced  _ far  _ too close and  _ far  _ too long with that Stark man, and you know it. What would Mother think if she saw you?”

“Mama would think it unremarkable that I was dancing with a polite man.”

A polite man who, by keeping his hand in precisely the most polite position on her back, had allowed himself to rub his thumb over and back across the bare skin above her stays. She felt it still, the gentle touch of his skin on hers, and wondered why that was. 

“Mother would be concerned that you were showing such favour to a man not of her choosing-”

“Take your head out of the prince’s arse for a moment and remember of whom you are speaking, Arthur,” she cut in. “Have you ever met our mother, Arthur? Do you  _ truly  _ think she would behave so stupidly? So  _ northernly? _ ”

“She might prefer you not act quite so Dornish beyond the Marches,” he hissed. “Be reasonable, Ash, people here talk, and they are much less kind than at home.”

“Is that why you have been unrecognisable since I arrived? Why you have been so little yourself?”

“I think I am more myself than I ever was, and you are avoiding the truth of what I am saying!”

They had come to a halt not far from Elia’s place of honour, where she sat in splendour beside Prince Rhaegar’s empty chair. Ashara could feel the eyes of all her friends on her, and knew Arthur could feel them too. 

It would not serve Princess Elia for Ashara to cause a scene. For that reason alone, she removed herself from Arthur’s arms and stepped away.

“And you were having such a lovely time,” Elia said with genuine disappointment when Ashara retook her place behind her chair. “I am sorry, Ash, I should have had someone interfere-”

“It is nothing, Your Highness,” Ashara said. “My brother was simply being… Protective.”

“Is that what he’s calling it?” Frank asked, passing a cup of sweetwine over Elia’s head into Ashara’s hand. “Gods be praised, I thought he was behaving like a priggish bastard. Did you enjoy your Northman, Ash?”

“He and I plan on dancing again after dinner tomorrow,” Ashara said, hiding her smile behind her cup. The others whooped and laughed, and for once Ashara did not mind that every man in the hall was looking at them.

Eddard Stark was looking as well, after all.

 

* * *

Prince Lewyn was fast becoming one of Ashara’s favourite people, if only for the way he distracted so thoroughly from his brothers-in-arms. 

Old Ser Harlan wasn’t so bad, too doddery and slow to be of much harm, but the rest made her uneasy. Arthur was the most pious man in Westeros, short of the High Septon, and Lord Commander Hightower had a nasty habit of staring down his straight, broad nose at all of them. Ser Oswell she could not decide on, for one moment he was smiling and japing with Oberyn and Woody, and the next he was mocking Frank and Ryon for the dark of their skin on the yard. Jon Darry flirted relentlessly with every halfway pretty woman at court, and a black look often took his sharp blue eyes when he was rebuffed.

Which left her with Prince Lewyn, who she loved, and Ser Barristan, who she was afraid might love her.

The following night after dinner, Ashara waved down the table to Eddard, who was rising from his seat and smiling back at her.

But of course Arthur cut in ahead of him.

After Arthur there was Oberyn, who was spinning her away toward Eddard when Oswell Whent cut in, and then Ryon, interrupted by Ser Gerold. Woody cut in then, spinning her away from any white cloak, but Jon Darry was there before they reached Eddard.

Frank pushed Ser Jonothor away with a scowl, lifting Ashara into a twirl that made her laugh - she hadn’t thought he had that sort of strength in his wiry arms, but she was on the ground as gentle as a kiss before she’d even caught her breath. He danced her at double-time, spinning her rapidly through the other couples in Eddard’s direction. They were there! Ashara’s hand was within reach of Eddard’s-

And Ser Barristan cut in.

It was impossible to say no to Barristan the Bold. He was the finest knight in the realm, the most revered swordsman in Westeros. They said he was better than Arthur, or at least that he had been in his prime, but he had never been arrogant with it. He was kind and mannerly and noble, and something about him made Ashara uncomfortable. 

“You look very lovely tonight, my lady,” he said, those unsmiling blue eyes of his unusually warm as he looked down at her. They all had chosen to wear warm Martell orange tonight, for Elia, and with her hair gathered up under a gold-wire net, her neck and shoulders felt very exposed. At least the back of her gown was cut higher tonight, so Ser Barristan’s hands could not find her skin. 

“Thank you, ser. You do me great honour.”

He smiled, and she wanted to recoil. She did not, because she didn’t want to insult him, but she could not deny the impulse.

“Enough,” Ser Lewyn said, appearing from the whirl of skirts and half-capes to take her firmly from Ser Barristan’s arms, take her from the floor, and put her hand in Eddard’s. “You leave Arthur to us, little Ash. Celise and Samara and I will put manners on him, and if we don’t manage it, we’ll set Raina loose.”

Celise and Samara were in Martell orange as well, the silver in their black hair like crowns, but Raina was between them in acidic Lemonwood yellow. Ashara wondered how sharp those long peridot-headed pins in her hair really were.

“Little Ash?” Eddard asked, once Prince Lewyn had left them alone. “Is it only because you’re the youngest, or is it because you’re so much taller than the most of your friends?”

“Both,” she admitted, leaning into the weight of his hand on her waist as they stepped into the dancing. “And what of you, Eddard Stark? No embarrassing nicknames?”

“Only Ned. Most everyone calls me Ned.”

“Then I shall call you Ned as well, I think - it suits you better than Eddard. Eddard is an old man’s name.”

He shared that warm, quiet laugh with her again, and tucked her a little nearer his body. He was warm all over, she thought, and wondered if that was normal for Northmen. Mayhap they were warm-blooded to fight against all that bitter cold. 

“What is snow like?” she asked, squeezing his shoulder. “I’ve never seen snow before, not up close.”

“Well,” Ned Stark said. “It’s cold, I suppose. And wet.”

Ashara looked into his interesting grey eyes, thrilled by the flush of pink rising in his cheeks, and grinned.

“Do a favour for me, my lord,” she said. “Never write poetry.”

* * *

 

 

“Little Ash has a  _ suitor,” _ Woody crowed, spinning around with Ashara over his shoulder as they all settled into Elia’s solar late that night. “Your first serious suitor, Lady Dayne - how does it feel?”

Ashara only laughed, hiding her face in Woody’s black-and-gold striped back. The others were laughing as well, all of them teasing. She didn’t mind one bit, though. She had danced three full dances with Ned, and then she had sat with him for over an hour, talking about snow and sand and being second-in-line. 

“You like him, then?” Ynys asked, when Woody had finally released Ashara and she was halfways into a cup of good sour wine. “This Northman of yours - we’ve found out all we can of him. No one seems to have a bad word to say that knows him, but do  _ you _ like him, Ash?”

“Very much, Ynys,” she admitted, startling at the touch of Eleine’s thin, strong hand on her knee. “Oh, I do! I do like him, I don’t know anyone else like him.”

“Don’t dare ask if you’re being silly,” Elia warned her, smiling warm and tired. “You’re being very sweet, and I daresay so is he.”

“I daresay Robert Baratheon is instructing Eddard Stark on the best way to get you alone so he can get under your skirt,” Frank said, folding delicately to the floor at their feet. “But we shall guard your virtue, Ash - unless you’d rather we didn’t, in which case we’ll be sure to keep Arthur away so you can have whatever fun your Northman is hiding under that sombre face.”


	2. II

Ashara was not minding where she was going, too busy reading Ned’s latest letter - dear Robert’s common-born lover had birthed a daughter, a beautiful, healthy girl called Mya - and so she did not notice Ynys and Ryon until she was tripping over them.

“We have news, Ash,” Ynys said tearfully, holding fast to Ryon’s hands. “Oh, Ash, such news!”

Things had improved between them since the Prince’s court had moved to Dragonstone. It was Elia’s court in reality, because Prince Rhaegar spent as much time at Summerhall as in his castle, and being away from the King’s noxious influence was doing them all good. 

Letters also seemed to come quicker to Dragonstone from the Eyrie than they had to King’s Landing. For that she was thankful.

There were several audience chambers on Dragonstone, drafty, cold rooms that had been empty for years. Elia had started to reclaim them one at a time, and this had been the first. The high ceiling was hung with pale gold satin, and there were silk hangings painted with scenes from Nymeria’s conquest lining the walls. Low couches and huge sitting pillows filled the floor, and Elia had made sure that a fire burned in the hearth all day to chase away the damp. 

It was where they always settled in the evenings - to read and write their letters, for Oberyn and Wenda to act out the skits they so loved to write, for Eleine to bring out her harp and bring them all to tears with the beauty of her playing. Sometimes Elia sang with her, and on those evenings it was all Ashara could do to press her face into her hands to keep from weeping. There was such sweet sorrow in Elia’s voice, and the wind and rain that screamed and whistled outside the big, high windows was only a counterpoint. 

The best nights were when they all crowded close together on the pillows, circled in around the fire and passing a bottle of wine between them. Ashara loved being close to all of them, especially when Woody pulled her under his arm and hummed lullabies. 

Ashara never wondered if Mors Manwoody had untoward intentions. He gave every appearance of being a cad and a rogue, but Oberyn had told her in whispers that Mors had lost a lady love to another man in marriage, and his heart was still healing. If anything, she was safer with Woody than with anyone else, because he seemed to trust in the warmth blooming between her and Ned more than anyone else did. 

“Share your news, Ynys,” Ashara said as the others all filed in. “We’re all here now, save for Elia-”

“And she already knows,” Ryon said. “Come in, come in, all of you, Ynys and I have news-”

Eleine had a hand over Wenda’s mouth as she guided her to the pillows, and once they were all settled, Ynys and Ryon stood before them, still holding hands.

“We have had our difficulties,” Ynys said, which made Ryon dip his head. “But we have come through them, and we- I am- that is, we are-”

“We’re expecting a child,” Ryon said. “Isn’t that wonderful? A new Allyrion.”

“As if we need more,” Frank groused, but he was smiling as he rose to clasp Ryon’s hand and kiss Ynys’ cheek. Their little Edgar was nearing two years old now, Elia’s Rhaenys near a full year, and it seemed absurd that Ynys and Ryon should have repaired all the pain between them in such a short time. “Congratulations, my friends - will you go home for the birth, Ynys? I’m sure Elia would be glad to accommodate you however you need here-”

“No, no,” Ynys said, tipping her cheek to accept kisses from Wenda and Eleine and Myria and Larra and Woody, and Ashara last of all. “I will go home - I’m leaving at the end of next month. Ryon will follow after, once he is sure our affairs are settled here.”

Ashara wondered if she was wrong, but that sounded as though Ynys and Ryon did not plan on returning after the babe was born. 

“You will settle at Godsgrace, then?” Woody asked, sounding as shocked as Ashara felt. Ynys was sweet-natured and quiet for a certainty, but Ryon was as outgoing a man as Ashara knew, and thrived at court.

Was that why they were returning home? Did Ynys fear another half-brother to play twin to this child? 

“How absolutely boring of you,” Wenda huffed. “Going away to be  _ married.  _ How very tiresome. I’m sure I shan’t even think to write, now that you’ll be gone from my sight.”

Wenda was as chatty and outgoing as Ryon, with her chopped-to-her-chin hair like cornsilk and her endless, awful laughter, but not even she could hide her dismay at this news. Oh, they were all thrilled for Ryon and Ynys, of course they were! Ynys had made no secret of wanting more children, and everyone always wanted Ynys’ happiness because she so much wanted the same for others, but they could not be happy to lose their friends. 

“We’ll never be far,” Ynys said, drawing Ashara close. “Don’t be sad, my friends - I am only ever a raven’s flight away. You know that.”

“Who are we to rely on to choose our dresses now?” Larra said, in a valiant attempt at teasing. “Oh,  _ Ynys.  _ We shan’t miss Ryon a jot, but we’ll miss you very much.”

Ashara hoped that someone would be sent from home to fill some of the gap Ynys and Ryon would leave, but who was there to send? Who was there who could be trusted so completely as the people in this room?

 

* * *

“I already miss her,” Wenda sighed as they waved Ynys off from the pier. “Isn’t that absurd? But then, I suppose I’ve hardly spent longer than a sennight away from her since we were girls, so I don’t know what to do with myself now that she’s gone.”

Eleine was trying to be discreet about wiping away tears with a beautifully embroidered hankie, and Frank was hiding his upset by embracing Wenda as her own tears came out in full force. Larra and Oberyn were arm-in-arm, leaning their temples together as they so often did while sharing secrets. 

Ashara sometimes wondered if Larra’s betrothed, handsome, charming Mors Jordayne, Myria’s younger brother, was jealous of Larra’s friendship with Oberyn. She had wondered less when she realised how little Ned worried of her own friendship with Woody, though.

“Are you alright, little Ash?” Woody asked, one arm over Ashara’s shoulders and the other over Eleine’s. “You’ve not said a word since Ynys told us she was leaving.”

“Neither has Eleine,” Ashara said, which made Eleine huff - as close as she ever came to laughing. “I’m fine, Woody, I promise. Just sad to lose Ynys.”

“And Ryon?” Woody asked, nudging his hip against hers. “I know you’ve been angry with him since word came of his Daemon, but will you miss him as well?”

“For Elia’s sake, if nothing else. The more of us who are around us, the safer she is.”

“And the safer you ladies are,” he pointed out. “At least we are on Dragonstone for now, Ash - the only outsiders we have to handle are Prince Rhaegar’s milksops.”

And milksops they were - oh, they were fine swordsmen to a one, and intelligent, able men, but they were also the kind of fools who were satisfied with sitting around in the tower room Prince Rhaegar preferred, listening to him sigh and mope and play his harp. Ashara couldn’t imagine how boring it must be, but they all seemed more than pleased by such a waste of their every evening. Even on the yard, they drilled and sparred in carefully practiced patterns, while Ryon and Frank and Oberyn and Woody  _ played _ at it. 

Wasn’t that why it was called swordplay? Wasn’t it supposed to be a passion, off the battlefield?

“Ryon is your dearest friend, Woody,” Ashara said. “You’ll miss him most of all of us.”

“I’ll cope,” Woody assured her. “I have all of you to concern myself with - I won’t have time to miss him.”

 

* * *

Ashara saw Woody only once, the day Ryon departed Dragonstone. She did not mean to see him like that, had intended only on bringing Elia’s new soaps to the washroom off her bedchamber, but-

Woody, kneeling at Elia’s feet, her hands in his shining red-dark hair. As if she was giving him a wife’s blessing in his sorrow at Ryon’s departure.

Ashara left them to it. The soaps would keep.

 

* * *

When Ashara was twelve years old, her mama took a paramour. 

Steffon Toland was little Lady Nymella’s uncle, a sharp-featured man with a smile like razors and the gentlest hands Ashara had ever known. She had been too young on losing their father to be jealous of Ser Steffon’s place in their household, and Allem too glad to see Mama smile so much, but Arthur had taken against Steffon from the off. He had been sixteen, visiting in the short two years between his knighthood and his being called to King’s Landing to serve the creature on the throne, and he had resented how easily Ser Steffon had fit into place at Starfall.

Perhaps Arthur had felt out of place himself by then. He had never confided such things in Ashara, so she would never know.

Regardless, Ashara had suspected that this day was coming for some time now, as she had witnessed Mama and Allem rely on Steffon’s easy manner with their smallfolk whenever there was a dispute among the labourers, or his open-handed kindness when someone came to Hillside Gate seeking aid. 

She had also expected Arthur’s reaction. She just hadn’t expected it to be so very public.

The hammering on their sitting room door startled all of them from their pursuits - most of them were listening to Eleine play her beautiful harp as they wrote their letters. It was a rare, quiet evening, all of them tired and caught in their own minds, and Oberyn exclaimed over the ruin of the lined paper he’d been using to note down his and Wenda’s newest ditty. Elia herself got up to answer the door, and fell back against Raina’s waiting embrace when Arthur slammed it open.

“Did you know about this?” he demanded, looking a stranger in his northern shirt and heavy breeches. “Did she tell you about this?”

She glimpsed the purple of a Dayne seal on the letter in Arthur’s shaking hand, and looked to her own letters - there was one there from Mama in the mix, but she had been reading Ned’s letter for the past hour, lingering on the bits that made her laugh and made her blush. She hadn’t gotten to Mama’s yet, but Arthur’s fury was a fair indication of what she’d find.

“She’s asked Steff to marry her, then?” Ashara asked, snatching his letter from his hand. “High time - when do they plan on wedding?”

“This is  _ not _ -”

“Of course it is,” she cut him off. “Mama loves Steffon. Steffon loves Mama. I don’t see what strikes you as so inappropriate about that, Arthur.”

“Lady Dynora is to remarry?” Elia asked, pushing past Arthur to perch right beside Ashara. “How wonderful! Will the wedding be at Starfall, Ash? When will you need to go?”

“I haven’t had a chance to read my letter yet, Your Highness,” Ashara said, which was true - Arthur’s was blunt and short, just a bare announcement of the coming marriage with no invitation to join. Ashara knew things had been bad between Mama and Arthur for a long while, but she had not realised quite  _ how  _ bad. “But I will be back as soon as possible afterward, my lady, I promise.”

“I beg your pardon, Princess, but this is a private matter,” Arthur said, rising to his full and towering height. “My sister and I-”

“If it were such a private matter, Ser Arthur,” Elia said sweetly, “then mayhap you should not have come tearing into  _ my  _ audience chamber to shout at your sister about it, in front of our friends.”

Arthur stopped at that. His skin was not quite as dark as Ashara’s own, not with how much time he spent indoors with his beloved prince, and his face flamed deep scarlet now.

“Then I will bring my sister-”

“Not unless she wishes to go with you, Art,” Oberyn said. “And I think she would rather finish reading her own letters first, and then she will find you.”

He left without another word, and Ashara was surprised by just how relieved that left her. She and Arthur had barely spoken to one another since Elia’s court had moved to Dragonstone, and every time they did, it ended in a row. She was tired of it, but she refused to allow his stupidity to ruin Mama’s good news.

“I will read my letter from Mama now,” she said, “and then, if he behaves, I will speak to Arthur.”

“And if he does not behave,” Oberyn said, draping himself across her shoulders like a very heavy stole. “Well, you’ve been giggling your way through this latest letter from your beau - I think you’ll get another hour or two’s amusement from sweet, boring Ned’s words.”

Oberyn stayed where he was, as did Elia, pressed up against Ashara’s side. She was glad of them, more than she could ever say, but she missed Mama and Allem more than she had since her very first days in King’s Landing.

She split the seal on Mama’s letter. Mayhap some time away from court would do her good. She would miss her friends, but being at Starfall would allow her to speak to Mama and Allem about Ned. She’d written a little bit about him, enough that Allem had felt the need to tease her in his last letter, but it would be different when she was before them, unable to hide her blushes. When she was before them, she could ask Mama to write to Lord Stark on her behalf. Ned had had his sister write to her, and Ashara liked little Lyanna so far. She had been thinking of writing to his brother’s betrothed, too, Catelyn Tully of Riverrun, and mayhap even writing to his father herself. 

She wondered what Arthur would think if she did  _ that.  _ Ashara’s future was her own, more or less - Allem might marry, he might not. She might inherit Starfall, she might not. Either way, so long as she did not seek to wed an Oakheart, she could not see Mama objecting. Ned was as fine a prospect as a second child of Starfall could hope to snare, and he had snared her in return to boot.

Yes. A week or two at home would do her a world of good. She would have to write to Ned before she left, of course, so he would know where to send his letters, and to warn him that she was going to speak to Mama. 

She hoped he would be as excited as she was.

 

* * *

Orchard-blossom hung heavy over the tang of salt as the ship came into dock, and Ashara couldn’t help but bounce on the balls of her feet. Oh, gods above, she had missed the scent of Starfall, the bright gleaming white of the chalky cliffs, the sharp sparkle of the Torentine as it hurled itself down into the sea below. 

The harbour here was far larger than seemed necessary at first glance, but Mama had explained it to her. The sea was one current, the crash of the falls another, and so their ancestors - long, long ago, before Nymeria, before the Seven, when the Daynes were Kings of the Torentine and kept their own forgotten gods - had dug the harbour into the soft chalk of the cliffs. It made the dock safe, and left a wide channel between the riptide and the fall-pool for ships to traverse.

The echo of the fall under the cut of the docks was one of Ashara’s very favourite sounds in the world. It meant she was home. Now there was only the slow, winding road up to the town - and look, there was Dug, the groom who’d kept Starfall’s stables as long as Ashara could remember and longer, with a beautiful silver-grey sandsteed on the end of a tether - and across the paved square to Highgate Street, and through the Hillside Gate. Now there was only the boulevard from gate to door, and there was Mama, and Allem, and probably Steffon, too.

“Hello, Lady Ash,” Dug said cheerfully. “The lads will take your things up in the wagon, but I thought you might want to ride on ahead and see Lady Dy without having to wait. It is good to have you home, milady, truly it is.”

Ashara leaned down and kissed Dug’s cheek. He was a heavy-set, strong man with the most bowed legs in Dorne, and he had been the one to teach Ashara to ride - for that alone, she loved him.

The ride up the Harbour Road was wonderful - her hair was bound up and her face was hidden behind a veil, but the air was cleaner and sweeter here than anywhere else she had been so far, even through the veil. 

The sudden burst of light when she emerged up out of the cliff into town took her aback, but she knew this road better than any other. It was straight for ten yards and then a gentle turn north, and straight again until the smooth paving turned to clicking cobble under her horse’s feet.

People waved as she passed - Mama had surely let the town know she was coming home to visit - and she laughed, so happy to be home that she could not keep it in. There were new hangings on the market stalls, dark green and white stripes where before they had been pale pink and sky blue. The trees around the edge of the square had grown as well, tall enough now to reach almost to the third windows up, and the baker’s little daughter - surely that couldn’t be her? She was wearing her hair up in a scarf now, a real little lady.

Enough of that - Highgate Street beckoned, and Mama. 

The Hillside Gate was thrown wide open, the stained glass panels in the tops of the gates throwing pools of colour onto the flat limestone pavers. The colours landed on Ashara as well, as she flew threw the gate, and then she was leaping from the saddle and sprinting up the steps, and Mama was running to meet her.

Mama was  _ with child.  _

“Surprise, Ash!” Mama laughed, pressing Ashara’s hands to the swell of her belly. “It was a surprise to us as well, my love, but it pushed me to make an honest man of Steffon, so I suppose it is not  _ all  _ shock and horror.”

“Oh!” Ashara said, because she couldn’t say anything else. “Oh! Oh, Mama!  _ Oh!” _

“I quite like the name Allyria, Ash,” Allem called as he came down the steps. “We just have to hope she’s as pretty as you, to live up to the name.”

 

* * *

There was silver in Mama’s hair now, the same starlight-soft as Arthur’s among all the raven-black of her curls. Allem as well seemed older, more settled in himself, and he and Steffon were laughing together by the window while Mama lounged with her head in Ashara’s lap.

“Tell me more of this nice young man of yours, sweetling,” she said. “Tell me of his good manners. I didn’t expect you to find such a thing in the north.”

“Well, I suppose he’s not from the north as we mean it,” Ashara said thoughtfully. “He’s from the  _ real  _ North, away between the Neck and the Wall. He’s… Well, he’s not as tall as me, and it isn’t that he’s handsome so much as his face is honest. Oberyn says he’s  _ sombre,  _ but Oberyn thinks everyone who doesn’t laugh as much as he does is boring.”

“And you don’t think your Northman is boring, Ash?”

“No, Mama, no - he’s terribly clever, and he’s funny, too! He’s just used to letting his brother or his foster-brother speak ahead of him, I think.”

“You’re blushing, Ash,” Mama said softly, threading her fingers through Ashara’s, atop the swell of her belly. Mama was nearing her seventh month, and the babe tumbled restlessly every noon, in the highest heat. “You truly do like him, don’t you?”

“More than I should like to admit, Mama. He is like no one else I have ever known.”

“Good,” Mama said. “Then I shall write to his papa the morning after the wedding on your behalf. I- What does your brother say about any of this?”

“I think it a fine plan,” Allem said, swooping down to kiss Ashara’s hair as he and Steffon passed. “But I fear I am not the brother in question.”

“Arthur is not himself,” Ashara said. “It is as if he wants so badly to have Prince Rhaegar’s trust that he is becoming a northerner - more a northerner than the Prince himself, I think, who so prides himself on his Valyrian blood. It’s the strangest thing, Mama. He and I have hardly talked without fighting since I joined Elia’s household. It’s as if everything I do shames him, somehow. And as for how he behaved when Ned and I met! We were only dancing, but Arthur acted as if I’d dropped to my knees for Ned’s pleasure!”

“Bracing,” Mama said dryly. “Does he know how often you write to your Northman? He unbent his pride enough to write to your brother last month. About you. He thinks you’re rushing into an affection for a man you don’t know.”

“He would know differently if he could speak to me without- without-”

“Without acting like your older brother?” Mama asked.  “Arthur and I have our differences, Ash, but I do think his intentions in discouraging your affection for Ned are coming from a good place. I don’t think he understands how little interest you have in forging a life at court beyond Princess Elia’s circle, sweetling. I don’t think he understands that that’s  _ possible  _ for you.”

“What do you mean?”

Mama struggled upright, spinning to face Ashara once she had her balance.

“Elia is playing Mariah Martell, whether she realises it or not,” Mama said. “She is forming Daeron the Good’s court within the wider court - Dornish, intelligent, not so martial. The last Martell crown princess wielded a Queen’s influence, owing to the appalling treatment her goodmother suffered at the King’s hands. Elia will do the same, in time. All she needs is for her husband to take his head out of the clouds.”

“I’m not sure what that has to do with Arthur and I, Mama.”

“Arthur is part of the wider court,” Mama said. “You are part of the inner court - but he doesn’t see it that way. He doesn’t see the divide, and so he doesn’t understand that you needn’t change, as he has.”

Ashara bit her lip. It made sense, of a sort, but she didn’t like it. 

“Arthur has gone too far, to make up for being Dornish,” Mama said. “But you have not changed at all, and that worries him. It also makes him jealous, I think.”

 

* * *

Mama’s wedding gown was the colour of the crocuses that bloomed in waves between the castle walls and the orchards. 

“My first was white,” Mama said, smoothing her skirts over her belly. “Silver-white, as befitting a maiden of Starfall. I thought a little colour would serve me well this time.”

Ashara tucked some of those same crocuses into Mama’s crown of braids, and adjusted the fall of her purple-and-silver sandsilk cloak - the same cloak she would soon wrap over Steffon’s shoulders. The same cloak Ashara might wrap over Ned’s shoulders, if all went well. 

Oh. Would Ned also wrap her in his colours? Would they simply swap cloaks? Would she be expected to give up her name for Ned’s? 

“You look beautiful, Mama,” Ashara said, and she had never meant it more. Between the babe and the joy, Mama was glowing. All that might have made it better would be to have Arthur here, and on good terms with them all. 

Princess Loreza’s arrival had gone some way to soothing that lack - she had brought little Princess Arianne with her, Doran’s girl, who was bright as a button and mischievous as a fox. Ashara knew Mama was still sore that Arthur had not even written her a letter of congratulations, though, not even when Ashara had written to tell him of the coming babe.  _ That  _ was what truly stung. Ashara had been unsurprised by it - Arthur’s new northern sensibilities meant that he doubtless felt that Mama was behaving inappropriately, and that Ashara was endangering her reputation by standing with Mama today.

He still could have written. They were to have a new brother or sister, and no matter Mama’s marital state when that babe was conceived, it was  _ good news. _ It would not have stained Arthur’s pristine white cloak to write a letter to Mama about the babe, even if he still could not bring himself to accept Steffon as her choice.

 

* * *

_ My daughter regards your son with the highest esteem, and tells me that over the course of their regular correspondence, something of an accord has been reached. I am sure that it is not the way in your far northern reaches for a mother of a daughter to put such a question as this to the father of a son, but we are Dornish, and so I ask. _

_ My daughter is as close to Starfall as your son is to Winterfell, and so they are equals. I would have him for a goodson, if you would accept my girl as your gooddaughter. _

 

* * *

__

Ashara found herself once more walking the floor of a birthing chamber the day a letter came all the way from Winterfell, and so she did not see Ned’s father’s acceptance of her suit for two full days after the raven landed in Starfall.

Instead, she walked Mama’s bedchamber, up and down, onto the balcony and back in, for hours and hours on end. Instead, she sat behind Mama to support her back as she screamed and pushed and then screamed and pushed some more.

Ynys had been right, as they held Elia through the little princess’ entry to the world. Not even seeing her mother scream this way scared her, not as Elia had thought it might. Ashara found herself urging her mother on even when she sagged back into Ashara’s arms, even when it looked as if the labour was going on too long, too hard-

And a babe screamed.

“Well done, Lady Dynora,” flat-nosed old Maester Dorrel said cheerfully. “A lovely fat little girl! Looks as if she has the dark hair, I think.”

Mama turned her face into Ashara’s neck, laughing sleepily. Ashara held her tight, watching as Dorrel snipped the babe’s cord and passed her to the midwife to be cleaned and bundled. 

“Allyria is a good name, isn’t it Mama?” she said. “Allem had the right of it - she’s beautiful.”

“She’s your sister, little Ash,” Mama said, reaching up to pat Ashara’s cheek. “How could she be anything else?”

 

* * *

Mama’s recovery from birthing Lyria was slow, and Maester Dorrel was typically blunt as to why. 

“It’s because your mother’s old to be having children,” he said, with the utter lack of tact that had earned him that thrice-broken flat nose of his. “But she’s also a fierce, hardy old witch, so she’ll come strong again soon enough. Just give her time, Lady Ash. Ser Allem has the running of the place well in hand, and Ser Steffon has the minding of the little lady. Between us all, we’ll keep them from laying it all to ruin.”

“I’d like to stay until Mama is up, maester,” she said uncertainly. She’d missed walking the peach orchards arm-in-arm with Dorrel, who had always given her precisely the same unrelenting, merciless lessons he had given to Allem and Arthur before her. She’d loved him for treating her as their equal, just as Master Senna had when he allowed her a bow on the yard. “She won’t want Allem poking in when she needs help-”

“She has a husband now, Lady Ash,” the maester reminded her. “And she has done well enough without you, the year and a half you were at court.”

“Yes, maester, but-”

“She has a husband,” he said gently, “and soon, so will you. She would not wish you to delay your own life to mind her health, my lady. Your brother and her husband will keep her safe, and we all will mind them. She is in good hands. So is your sister.”

Lyria was already showing something of a Dayne face, with the same round, appled cheeks Ashara and Allem shared, the same dimpled chin as Art and Allem, but her eyes were the real stunner - enormous, in that fat little face, and the same startlingly bright hazel-brown as her father’s. Steffon could hardly bear to set her down for a moment, toting her about like a trophy, showing her off to everyone who had already seen her twenty times a day in the fortnight since her birth. 

“I know,” Ashara said. “I know, Dorrel. But…”

“It is allowable to miss home, Lady Ash. You don’t need an excuse to stay on a while longer. I understand that you have duties in King’s Landing, and I know that you are no doubt eager to see your young man and celebrate your good news, but you are allowed to stay here a while. We are glad to have you. We will  _ always _ be glad to have you.”

She kissed his freckled cheek for that, and said no more. She would stay another week, and then return to Dragonstone. That would give Ned time to meet her there. She would tolerate Robert Baratheon’s hungry eyes if it meant she could share her joy with Ned in person.

 

* * *

Oberyn and Wenda near knocked her on her arse when she stepped onto the dock at Dragonstone, but Woody reached between them and heaved her directly upright while Myria, laughing, wrestled the others out of the way.

“Welcome back, little Ash,” Elia called, waving from a place of safety, on Frank’s arm. Eleine was with them as well, and Larra, and Ashara was pleased to see Abella Whent and Nessa Darry had rejoined Elia’s household. “How fares your lady mother?”

“Well!” Ashara said, squeezing tight to Woody’s arm. “Oh, Elia, so well! She and Steffon are so happy, and the babe is  _ beautiful!  _ Her name is Allyria, but Allem said that was too big a name for such a little thing so we’ve taken to calling her Lyria-”

“You know, it  _ has _ been quiet lately,” Frank said, desert-dry, “and now I understand why.”

“And! And, oh, Elia, oh, Mama wrote to Ned’s father, may I invite Ned here?  _ Please?  _ If not, may I visit him at the Eyrie? I should prefer to have all of you with us to celebrate, but-”

Elia laughed when Ashara swept her clean off her feet, and Ashara laughed with her. She was just  _ so happy. _

“Come inside, Ash, come inside,” Elia said. “Come inside and tell us everything, and while you are doing that, I will write to my husband’s cousin on his behalf, and make sure Lord Baratheon brings your Ned when he comes to visit.”

 

* * *

Ashara near knocked Ned on his arse when he stepped onto the pier at Dragonstone, but he didn’t seem to mind. He laughed, and spun them so hard her feet lifted from the ground.

“Welcome to Dragonstone, my lord,” she said, and then she kissed him in full view of Elia’s court, and Rhaegar’s, and the gods. They’d only kissed once before, when he and his foster-brother had stopped overnight at King’s Landing on their way to Storm’s End, but she wasn’t going to let something small like a lack of practice deter her. “Oh,  _ Ned!” _

“Hello, my dear,” he said, setting her firmly on her feet and leaning up to nudge his nose against hers. “How was your mother’s wedding? How is your sister? How was your sailing?”

“Move aside, Ned, let the rest of us out of the boat!” boomed Robert Baratheon, and Ashara couldn’t help but scowl. “Come now, don’t keep her to yourself, let us all see her!”

“I’m sorry,” Ned murmured, guiding her gently out of the way. “He’ll calm down once he realises no one is paying him any mind.”

She kissed him again for that, very quickly, and then stepped back so she was only holding his hand. 

“Lord Baratheon,” she said, sketching as much a curtsy as she cared to give. Ned loved this man, and for his sake she would tolerate him, but she would never like him. He had too much a  _ reputation _ for that. “Welcome to Dragonstone. Come - rooms have been prepared.”

Lord Arryn’s heir, Ser Elbert, was next down the gangplank, but the man after him surprised Ashara.

“Welcome to the family, Lady Ashara,” Brandon Stark said, bowing before her. “I can see now why Ned was so eager for our lord father to give his consent.”

 

* * *

Ashara was mostly sure that she and Ned would end up settling in Starfall - Allem seemed even less interested in marrying, now that she was on the way to settling - but she was glad all the same to find that she got along well not only with his beloved little sister, but also his revered big brother.

“I won’t pretend that I have remained chaste and pure, my lady,” Brandon confided over the lip of his cup, scowling absolute murder across the table to where Robert Baratheon was doing his best to look down Eleine’s dress. Eleine was twirling her knife point-down on the table, balancing it with the very tip of her finger. Somehow, Lord Baratheon had not taken the hint. “But my dalliances are… Less dalliances, and more a long-standing bond.”

“You have a paramour, my lord?” she asked, winking down the table to Ned, who was sitting between Oberyn and Elia and turning steadily pinker. “I did not think such things were the norm outside of Dorne.”

“A lady I have known all our lives, my lady,” he said. “We were always close, but have recently become more intimate friends, as it were. We both know it cannot survive my marriage, but… She is more than just a warm body on a cold night. I do not think the tempest over there would understand that a woman could be more than just a bedmate.”

“A more enlightened view than I expected of a northerner,” Ashara said mildly.

“Then you should meet more Northmen than just quiet Ned, I think,” he said. “Will there be dancing, my lady? I know Ned doesn’t dance-”

“Of course Ned dances! We’ve danced plenty of times, what do you mean he doesn’t dance?”

Ned’s brother, who had always been described to Ashara as unflappable, seemed very thoroughly flapped. He set his cup carefully on the table, watching her with wide eyes that were much darker than Ned’s - so dark they were nearly black.

“Ned  _ dances  _ for you?” he said. “My lady, when our lady mother was attempting to teach us the most basic of dances, Ned used to hide in the godswood and  _ cry.  _ My brother  _ hates _ dancing.”

“Not with me, he doesn’t.”

“Well,” Brandon said. “He must like  _ you _ very much indeed.”

“And I was  _ six _ ,” Ned shouted down the table, absolutely scarlet now. “Brandon! You mustn’t tell such tales!”

Robert Baratheon launched into some kind of boisterous and bawdy tale to which Ned was tangentially related, and everyone ignored him. He did not seem to like this at all, which pleased Ashara very much.

Brandon met Robert’s eye across the table, and then pointedly turned away.

 

* * *

Ashara had slipped away to fetch her wrap and Eleine’s when she happened upon it.

Raina Dalt was not a large woman. She was older than Ashara’s mother, well into her fifties, and lean and hard as one became after a life spent largely in the saddle. Ashara had heard that she was lethal with a bow, and twice as dangerous with a throwing knife, and right now she had Robert Baratheon cornered against a wall with one of those peridot-headed hairpins of hers pressed perilously to the placket of his breeches. 

“Now, my lord, I shan’t warn you again,” she said, in that caustic voice of hers. “Lady Dayne is not yours to look at. Lady Qorgyle is not yours to touch. The Princess is not yours to hunger for. Lady Wyl is not yours to manhandle. If you lay eye or hand on any one of them - or any other woman, for that matter - I will leave it so that no matter how much you look, you won’t be able to do anything about it.”

That beautiful pin of hers pressed just a little harder, and Lord Baratheon’s ruddy face paled.

“These ladies are under my protection,” Lady Raina said. “I have unmanned mightier men than you in the service of other women. Do not think me afraid to unman you.”

Her pin slashed across his throat on its way back to her hair, drawing a fine line of bright red blood below the edge of his dark black beard.

“Think well, my lord,” she said. “But do not think long.”

Ashara had never much liked Raina Dalt, but she loved her now.

 

* * *

“Since my brother has laid claim to your company all evening,” Ned said, appearing before her with his doublet unbuttoned at the neck, “I thought I might lay claim to you for the dancing.”

Ashara put her hand in his, and kissed him as soon as she was standing. She had had more to drink than usual, and was giddy with joy besides. He did not seem to mind, looping his arm neatly around her waist and drawing her close as he tipped his head up to kiss her a little firmer.

“Dancing?” she reminded him, laughing against his mouth. “You have to prove your brother wrong, darling, by dancing  _ every  _ dance with me.”

“I don’t know if I can bear it,” Ned said, tugging her along with a grin. 

“Could you bear to take part in a few less dances,” she said, ducking her head just enough to hide what she was saying from Oberyn, who would be relentless, “if I told you I knew a way directly from here to the gardens, and that no one would catch us if we happened to find our way from here to there?”

“My brother would notice,” Ned said, “and I think Princess Elia notices everything, but if we cannot slip away for a moment at our very own betrothal celebration, when can we?”

She laughed, and they danced the first dance, and then the second, and halfway through the third Ashara spun Ned toward a side door, and through it, and into the gardens beyond.

“Oh, gods preserve me, I didn’t realise it was so  _ cold!” _ she gasped, wrapping her hands around her bare arms as if that might ward off the sudden, shocking chill.

Ned wrapped himself around her from behind, the heat of him even more shocking than the cold of the night, and put his head up to hook his chin over her shoulder.

“It’s very beautiful tonight,” he murmured, looking up into the purple-black of the sky, scattered with stars like diamonds. 

_ “And one last thing, little starling - where should your star fall?” _

Here, in Ned’s arms. That seemed a fine place indeed to fall.

**Author's Note:**

> I’d like to thank L, Eli, Kate, Never, Rach, Sarah, Laurel, Lauren, Kimmy, Jo, and Sinika (I think that’s everyone) for putting up with me going ! ! ! ! ! Over this fic. Don’t know if I could have finished without ye.


End file.
